


you betcha, barista baby

by eg1701, van1lla_v1lla1n



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Brief mention of homophobia, Fluff, Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Injuries, Pining, implicit Shiv/Tom, is noncompetitive tomgreg still tomgreg? hope so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29113287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eg1701/pseuds/eg1701, https://archiveofourown.org/users/van1lla_v1lla1n/pseuds/van1lla_v1lla1n
Summary: Tom's a (hopefully, finally) up-and-coming exec at Waystar Royco. Greg keeps the lattes flowin' at the local coffee shop. //tomgreg coffee shop au
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 53
Kudos: 48





	1. new guy

**Author's Note:**

> Egg did a lot of the legwork on this--most of the first couple chapters are from a draft she started and decided not to finish. In these first chapters I (Vanilla) just expanded a bit here and there and did some editing just to make the writing style more consistent with mine in the later chapters. Thank you again, Egg, for jumpstarting this and for letting me run with it!
> 
> ngl i'm pantsing pretty hard with this one after Egg's draft ends (so rating/chapter count may change), but i'll tell you right now that this is gonna be high-fluff, low-angst tropey nonsense. :)

All kinds of people came into the coffee shop downtown, but the worst were the uptight businesspeople who flooded in before the workday and on their little coffee meetings through the morning and after lunch. They came off Wall Street, out of the offices downtown and in the Financial District, and ordered black coffee or fancy lattes and espresso—it was a tossup, usually, Greg had found. He could never really pin down any one type of person to order any one type of drink.

Greg didn’t know why these people couldn’t make black coffee in their offices, but he supposed if you made a lot of money, five bucks for a large coffee didn’t make much difference.

Most of them ordered in the middle of phone calls or while half-talking to the person they’d come in with, like if they stopped networking for even thirty seconds they might lose a job opportunity. One time a stern woman in a gray suit had fired someone as she ordered a peppermint tea, a contrast Greg laughed about afterward.

He supposed it was good they weren’t a chain cafe. Those places probably got the _really_ angry people, the ones who threw coffee back at you if you got the order wrong. These people were snooty for sure, but a little too classy for that, and so many of them came in with people they were trying to fuck with or fuck over that they generally seemed reluctant to be outright rude to the staff. The worst that had ever happened on one of Greg’s shifts was a middle-aged man who’d taken a sip of his drink, made direct eye contact with Greg, and said it was the wrong thing, only for Greg to confirm that it wasn’t even his in the first place.

But hey, he wasn’t complaining. The place paid well enough, he got free coffee on his days off, and during the workday, outside the coffee meeting crowd, the clientele was mostly tourists and families.

Greg liked it most when the kids came in, and he always set aside for them a screwed-up cookie or some other snack that they were just going to throw away anyway. It made the kids smile, and the hassled parents were usually thankful.

It was a break from the suits anyway.

Greg knew the regulars easy—he worked almost the same hours every week. One of the big-name traders, an older man named Matthew, was the only person who ordered hot chocolate year round. The CFO of that accounting firm three blocks away was a tall blonde woman named Samantha who ordered an Americano every time, unless she was especially stressed, because then she ordered tea and heaped sugar into it. Still other people he recognized and smiled at like they were casual acquaintances, even when he couldn’t remember their names (which was more often than he wanted to admit).

But this man was new.

The baristas made a game of pointing out the customers they thought were attractive. Dani, the college student who worked most weekdays with Greg, thought the yuppie girl who sometimes came in with her banker father was cute, while Jack, Greg’s Saturday coworker, had a thing for the red-haired girl who studied there some afternoons.

“So,” Dani said, leaning against the counter while Greg made the new guy’s drink—Tom was the name he’d given, and the name that was turning around in Greg’s head. “Are, like, white-collar forty-year-olds your type?”

“What?”

She smiled, twisted a braid around her finger, “Mr. Wall Street over there, in the fucking suspenders? Your type?”

“Oh,” Greg frowned and topped off the latte. He wouldn’t have pinned Tom as a latte drinker, and he wondered if this was a regular drink for him. “What about it?”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s hot I guess, in a dad kind of way.”

“Hated that a little bit,” Greg said, not looking at her. He snapped the lid on the cup, set it on the counter, called out “Tom?” a little more tremulously than he would’ve liked, ignoring Dani’s smirk. Tom looked up from his phone, where he’d been furiously texting for the past several minutes. “Here you go,” Greg said, sliding the cup toward him.

“Thanks.” The man took the cup, and before Greg could get out a warning he’d taken a scalding sip, choking and holding the cup away from him like it’d bit him. The snootiest guys always took a sip before leaving the counter. Greg was pretty sure it was so they’d have an easy out if the order was wrong—rich people were always eager to find something to complain about.

The man hid his embarrassment quickly behind an angry frown. Greg smiled—the classic customer service smile, as Jack called it—and said, “Sorry about that. Come back soon.”

Tom smiled back, a tight smile people always gave them when they were rushing off to do ostensibly more important or more expensive things, and hurried out. Greg heard Dani laugh behind him, and when he turned she was looking at him, arms crossed.

“Pathetic. You gonna fuck him?”

“Dude—”

She laughed again and moving back over to the register to take the next order. Greg hid in the back, where he was supposed to be taking stock before the post-lunch rush started.

In general, dating was off the table. Greg’s life was way too precarious to think about letting another person into it; he’d thought about getting a dog, but his apartment was barely big enough for him, and he didn’t have the time to go home and let it out often enough to give a little guy a happy life. Thinking about trying to make time for another human when he didn’t think he could even take care of a dog just felt like too much.

Fantasizing about a customer you saw once and would possibly never see again might be a fun thing to do occasionally, but it was really a waste of time.

And _sure_ , maybe he’d thought Tom was attractive, but he thought plenty of people were attractive. It was just that this time it’d been obvious to Dani, who’d just happened to be paying attention. Greg put the thoughts of Tom the executive at Corporation Unknown out of his mind and focused on not losing count of biscotti boxes.


	2. six degrees

Evidently lattes were Tom’s thing because that’s what he stuck with whenever he came in.

“Suspenders is here for you,” Dani said a week later. “He says you’re the only one who can make his fucking coffee. You better take care of this before I flip.”

“Oh,” Greg frowned. “Uh, sure. You want to finish this one?”

She nodded, taking the steaming pitcher from him. “You take him. He’s fucking annoying.”

Greg shrugged and found Tom waiting at the cash register. Thankfully he wasn’t holding up a line—people did that all the time, and Greg was pretty sure it was eventually going to cause a riot.

“There you are, Gregory,” he smiled, “You know I came in on Monday and you were absent? My latte was not good, buddy.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m off on Mondays,” Greg said, typing in the order. He didn’t bother waiting for Tom to actually tell it to him. “Would you like anything else?”

Tom shook his head.

“Four fifty,” Greg said, not even needing to look at the total on the register, and Tom handed over his card. That was something else white-collar people always did. Put everything on their card. Greg had only recently been allowed to use his card again, after it had been overdrawn for . . . several months. “I’ll have it out to you in just a minute.”

“Fine,” Tom said. “God, I’ve been up all fucking night. How much caffeine is in a latte, do you know?”

“Um, no?” Greg reached for a cup. “But, like, if you want, I can add an extra shot? On the house.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure,” Greg smiled. “You look pretty, uh, taxed, as it were.”

“My future father-in-law is ill,” he said. “Been a little hectic. Just started a new job too.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, about your father-in-law,” Greg said. He felt a jab of _something_ at the mention of a father-in-law but shoved it away. He shouldn’t have been surprised, and he had no goddamn right to be _anything_ about it anyway. But it was like when you found out a celebrity you had a crush on was engaged. There hadn’t been any hope to begin with, but the part of you that liked to dream big was still upset at the loss. “I hope he gets better, like, forthwith.”

“Thanks,” Tom said. He smiled tightly and looked down at his phone. Greg went to make his latte.

* * *

“I’m going to need the biggest thing you’ve got,” Tom said, before Greg could even open his mouth to ask how his morning was going. “I’m in deep, deep shit.”

“Um, my condolences?” Greg replied. He didn’t understand the corporate world well, so he had no idea what Tom could possibly mean. He was pretty sure Tom wasn’t a Wall Street guy, but he still didn’t know what company he worked for—he never said much about himself.

“Yeah,” Tom ran a hand over his face. “Yeah.”

“Like, do you know what you’re gonna do? About whatever it is?” Greg asked, ringing up the order.

“Not a fucking clue,” Tom frowned. “It’s bad.”

“And, uh, is your father-in-law on the mend?” Greg asked. He knew it was a risky topic. Maybe the man had fucking died, and asking would just make things worse.

“Uh-huh,” Tom said absentmindedly.

“Yeah, my great-uncle was sick for a little bit,” Greg said. His mother had called to tell him, but he’d already seen it in the news. “But, like, we haven’t seen each other in ages, you know?”

Tom squinted at him, like he was trying to figure out why, exactly, Greg had said that. And in reality, Greg wasn’t sure. Sometimes he just said things.

“Right,” Tom said. “Coffee?”

“Oh, sorry. One second.”

Tom looked pensive when Greg handed his coffee over the counter.

“Have you ever met anybody named Sylvester?” Tom asked, brow furrowed.

Greg considered. “No? I don’t think so?”

“Right? Who’s called Sylvester?”

“I don’t know, man. Do you think somebody gave you a fake name?”

“Could be, my friend. Probably never know.” Tom raised his coffee cup in a little goodbye wave when he left, and Greg tried not to feel like it was anything special, having a conversation with a customer that ended in a see-you-later kind of goodbye instead of a please-don’t-spit-in-my-coffee kind of goodbye.

* * *

“You finally came out for drinks!” Jack exclaimed when Greg slinked over to the bar. Greg liked Jack because he didn’t put up with shit from any of the customers. He was in law school uptown and came from California originally. Greg thought he was nice, if a little intense. That was probably the lawyer side of him.

“Yeah, I finally paid off my credit card debt, so,” Greg shouted back. It was a loud bar, the floor was a little sticky under his feet, and he felt exceptionally large all of a sudden, the crowd pressing in behind him.

Dani laughed and slapped his shoulder. “Greg’s just sad because his executive boyfriend is getting married.”

“What?” Henrietta, Dani’s roommate who worked at the diner a block away from the coffee shop, called back. “Greg? You get yourself an executive boyfriend?”

“No, like—” he shook his head. It was too hard to hear in here, and he knew Dani was just joking, but he didn’t want that kind of false information getting out. “He’s a regular at the shop. Dani thinks I think he’s hot.”

“He is kind of hot,” Jack said. “I mean, objectively. In a dad kind of way.”

Dani cackled at that and then pulled a serious face. “He’s engaged,” she explained to Henrietta, shaking her head dramatically. “It’s not meant to be.”

“You could be his mistress,” Jack offered. The bartender brought over drinks, and Greg took whatever they’d ordered for him. “I bet rich people treat their mistresses, like, really well.”

Dani nodded. “I fuckin’ bet.”

“Maybe,” he took a long sip. It burned a little, but anything to get out of talking about this.

* * *

Greg didn’t work until the afternoon on Saturdays, since he had the closing shift. A cursory glance at Twitter the next morning told him two things.

The first was that Tom worked for Waystar, his uncle Logan’s company. He knew all about Waystar: his grandfather hated the company passionately. Several articles had been published about the RECNY Ball, along with photos of the glamorously dressed attendees—including Tom, who’d attended with his fiancée.

That was the second thing Greg found out. Tom was engaged to Greg’s cousin, Shiv. They weren’t first cousins. Greg wasn’t much into genealogy, but they were, like, once removed or something. They’d never been close growing up. His mother kept them on the Christmas card list, but Greg hadn’t seen any of the Roys in several years. Even when he’d moved to New York, they ran in such different social circles that they hadn’t seen each other.

Much to his mother’s disappointment. She still thought he’d somehow be able to secure a job at Waystar with his half-Roy claim, but he’d hardly had the opportunity.

And now there was this. It was really six degrees of fucking separation, wasn’t it?


	3. the bad ones

Greg drove up to Canada for Thanksgiving to pick up his grandfather, who’d been invited (by Logan’s third wife, allegedly) and above all _agreed_ to go to Uncle Logan’s for the holiday. Much to everyone’s surprise, Greg was sure. Grandpa Ewan had informed Greg that he’d be driving the two of them down to New York and that Marcia would be setting a plate for each of them.

“Cousin, uh, Craig,” Logan said, introducing him, motioning vaguely toward Greg where he stood next to his grandfather. Ewan frowned.

“It’s _Greg_ , isn’t it?” Shiv said. “Cousin Greg?”

“Uh, yeah,” Greg replied. He wondered where Tom was, then decided he shouldn’t be wondering that. “But, you know, I’ll answer to both? People call me either—”

“We’re glad to have you. Both of you,” Marcia said—or he assumed it was Marcia, as they’d never met. Her accent was French, maybe, he thought.

“Well, no shit,” Greg heard behind him an hour or so later, and turned to see Tom, dressed up in a black turtleneck. “Cousin Greg is my barista,” he explained to Shiv.

“Really?” Shiv said, looking between the two of them. “Greg’s the one that makes you those lattes?”

“Small fucking world,” Tom smiled, and clapped Greg on the shoulder. “Family, huh?”

Greg tried to laugh. And tried not to feel jealous when he spotted Tom rubbing Shiv’s shoulders later, tried not to feel offended on Tom’s behalf when she shook him off.

Tom approached him later, when he was milling around by himself in a corner trying not to look out of place. Greg asked him how the day job was going.

“I’m thinking I’d like to move over to ATN,” Tom said. “That’s where all the real shit happens. Big shit. I could be a big cog there, you know? Really have an impact. At Cruises I feel like I’m basically ordering around waiters in Speedos, telling them to step it up for the bleached and primped wives of the bourgeoisie.”

Greg hadn’t caught most of the last of that. “Really? ATN?”

“Oh, what about it, Cousin Greg?”

“That place is just a little iffy with my principles, I guess. I’m surprised to hear it talked of like it’s an aspiration, or whatever.”

“You’re a goddamn barista, Greg, you don’t have principles.”

“Dude, I’m basically a card-carrying member of the proletariat. The working class has more principles than, like, anybody.”

“You can’t be a card-carrying member of the proletariat, Greg. That’s like saying you’re in the Antifa directory. Nobody’s in an Antifa directory. Everybody’s Antifa.”

“I’m not sure they are, actually? And also not everybody’s a member of the proletariat so, like, the comparison doesn’t quite carry?”

“Whatever, Greg. Hey, could I get a canapé? With a side of Scotch, please?” Tom guffawed like it was the funniest thing anyone had said all afternoon.

“What, like, I’m your barista right now?” Greg asked, smiling as if he were just playing along. “Is that the joke?”

Tom laughed even harder at that, and Shiv rolled her eyes in exasperation. But when Greg went over to the bar cabinet to get Tom's drink, Tom tagged along and served them both tiny plates of hors d'oeuvres.

"I can have some of this, right?" Greg asked him, holding up an unlabeled bottle. "Like, these are drinks for people?"

Tom laughed. "Yes, Greg. Members of the working class are still eligible to partake of the family liquor hoard."

Greg poured both of them a drink and traded one of the glasses with Tom for a plate. Maybe Tom was a bit of an asshole, but Greg thought he meant well—he just seemed a little out of place with the rest of the Roys. Like Greg did. And Tom was the only person there (other than Grandpa Ewan, who didn't count) who treated Greg like he was a real person. 

When Marcia called them for dinner, Greg hurried toward the front of the crowd into the dining room, hoping he could snag a seat next to Tom. But Marcia had set out little place cards with everyone's names, and Greg was stuck at the opposite end of the table from him. Tom looked down the table once and gave him a thumbs-up, but other than that he was wedged awkwardly between Grandpa Ewan and Roman, whose temperaments didn't exactly make for relaxing dinner banter. They kept leaning into Greg's space to argue with each other across him, jostling his elbows and knocking his food off his fork.

Tom hurried out to answer what sounded like a business call just before Marcia brought out the pie, and must've left after that—Greg didn't see him again. He felt bad for Tom, having to work on a holiday, but he guessed that's what it must be like when you were a man of important business.

* * *

There was a week Tom didn’t show up at the coffee shop at all. Dani called him Romeo and lamented over a love that was never meant to be. Greg laughed, told her she didn’t know the half of it.

On Wednesday that week, a young woman came in and asked for him. She wore a suit, with a button-up shirt and tie and shiny Oxford shoes and everything.

“Are you Greg?” she asked. “I need Greg.”

“Yeah, I’m—I’m Greg. And who, um, may I ask who I’m speaking to?”

“Comfry. Assistant to Tom Wambsgans? Yeah, I need his usual order. He said you’d know.”

He nodded. “Yep. I’ll have it right out.”

Greg felt like a member of an important insider team, being a reliable source of information on Tom. He felt a little stab of jealousy that Tom had an assistant he hadn’t known about—she got to spend time with him all day, run errands for him to make sure he was in a good mood, whatever else executive assistants did all the time.

Greg could see himself in that kind of position—he thought he’d do a decent job. He already had the latte part down, and he felt like he was pretty intuitive with customers who were gearing up for a meltdown. He was good at deescalating, good at figuring out what people needed, sometimes maybe even before they realized it themselves. (He thought this as he caught someone’s eye over the espresso machine and pointed over at the stack of to-go lids on a side table, then gave them a thumbs-up when they nodded a thanks.)

He snuck a glance back over at Tom’s assistant by the cash register, just to see quite how jealous he should feel. Was she Tom’s style of hot? Did she look enough like Shiv to be real competition? She didn’t, in fact, look anything like Shiv, and if the way she was leaning on the counter grinning at Dani was anything to go by, he didn’t have much to worry about in terms of her reciprocating any hypothetical Tom affections.

Comfry left him a decent tip and nodded at him curtly when he handed her Tom’s latte and a small drip coffee for herself.

“Thanks, man,” she said. “Dude’s a real bitch sometimes.”

Greg laughed. “Well, hopefully the caffeine will aid and abet.”

That Thursday evening, walking home, Greg saw Tom’s face in a TV playing in the window of an electronics shop. He blocked the sidewalk in surprise, letting people bump past him in irritation as he tried to figure out what was going on. Tom’s face was pale, and he kept touching his mouth and smiling anxiously. Greg felt nervous, and wondered if this was how Pat Nixon had felt watching her husband's debate with Kennedy.

The ticker at the bottom read: INCOMING WAYSTAR CRUISES EXEC DISCOVERS HISTORY OF CORPORATE MALFEASANCE.

Presumably Tom was the exec; Greg wondered what he’d found, if this was the “deep, deep shit” he’d mentioned. A press wrangler appeared to open the floor for reporter questions, and Tom fidgeted with the manila folder in front of him on the desk. Greg wished the store had turned on the closed captions; he’d have to hunt down a transcript later.

Just before he walked away, the ticker shifted: WAYSTAR CRUISES DIV. UNDER INVESTIGATION FOR THEFT, SEXUAL ASSAULT, RAPE, MURDER.

 _Shit_ , Greg thought. _The bad ones._ Maybe Grandpa Ewan’s hateful assessment of the family company wasn’t all that unreasonable after all.

* * *

When Tom came in the next Tuesday morning, later than he usually did but still a bit before the morning rush, he looked more frazzled than Greg had ever seen him. Tom hadn’t come by in more than a week by then, but he looked like he hadn’t slept in a month.

Greg started his drink right off and handed it to him by the register when he started to give his order. Tom just looked at him, down at the cup in his hand, and back up. He really looked awful—a cowlick stuck up on the back of his usually neatly gelled hair, and his suit was wrinkled.

“You look rather, uh, fatigued,” Greg said.

“Thanks,” Tom said, rolling his eyes. “Are the insults on the house?”

“Sorry, man,” Greg said. “I just meant, like—I saw you on the news last week?” He didn’t really know if it was wise to bring that up, but he’d already offended the guy, so.

“Yeah, you and the whole country, buddy. Look, can you take my money so I can get the fuck out of here?”

“Yeah, yeah—sorry about that.” Greg took the card from his hand and rung him up without making eye contact. He handed the card back with a grim smile and Tom sighed.

“Sorry, man. Thanks for having this ready so fast,” Tom said. He looked up once he’d tucked his wallet back into his pocket. “You’re a good guy. And I’m just—I’m stressed, you know? But I’m a terrible prick. I know I am. Sorry about that.”

“No, man, like, no worries. You’re good, dude,” Greg said, glad Dani was in the back, avoiding Tom as usual (or maybe spying on him to see how he acted around his crush, but he tried to give her the benefit of the doubt). “Um, yeah. No worries, though. I can see why you’d be stressed, given the, uh, magnitude of the corporate . . . stuff.”

“Yeah, like—I was just trying to do the right thing. If you find out about something like that, you should tell, right? But now I’m the face of it. It feels like the whole country has a camera in my shower, just waiting for me to start jacking off so they can post reaction videos on YouTube.”

“Um . . .” Greg paused as the bell above the door rang and a regular coffee meeting group filed in. “Well, it sounds like you did the right thing, then. And honestly, like, I’d be surprised if Waystar didn’t already have a camera in your shower, you know?” God, he needed to end this conversation. The meeting group was starting to form a line. “They’re not exactly known for, uh, respecting privacy concerns with regard to, like, data collection?”

Tom tilted his head, scoffing softly. “Cousin Greg, the proletarian conscience of the family. Hey, thanks again. I’ll, ah, see you next time, yeah?”

“Sure thing, dude. See you around, uh, the old OK Corral,” Greg said. Tom smiled at him before he left, and Greg waved when he turned back at the door, wincing at himself before he remembered he was supposed to be taking orders.


	4. sugar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for little bit of blood / a minor injury in this chapter

And then Tom really disappeared—he didn’t show up at the shop for weeks. Comfry started coming in his place, and Dani didn’t seem too bothered by that at all, to say the least. So Greg felt a little extra put out when Comfry came in, his secondhand connection to Tom who was always flirting with Dani, leaving Greg alone to cover both their duties until Comfry left.

“Looks like that really is it, then,” Dani said at the end of one shift, patting Greg on the back. “No glucose guardian for young Gregory after all.”

“Okay, like, he wasn’t that kind of guy anyway,” Greg said.

“What, an into-disadvantaged-youth kind of guy? Or an into-dudes-at-all kind of guy?” she asked as she hung up her apron.

Greg wasn’t quite sure of the answer to that—he suspected it could be both, but he didn’t really want to think about that. But he’d agreed to cover the next shift too, and he’d be the only one for the rest of the day, so of course he ended up thinking about it.

Tom was engaged to Shiv, sure, but bisexuality was a thing. Greg was annoyed he even cared, because of Shiv—it didn’t matter if Tom was into guys because he was taken anyway. And if he went for women like Shiv on the one hand, then Greg doubted he’d go for dudes like himself on the other.

And anyway it _really_ didn’t matter because Tom hadn’t shown up for weeks, and the last time he’d come in Greg had been awkward and a little rude, albeit accidentally. Tom had probably found a new place to get his coffee, where he didn’t know the baristas and the baristas didn’t know him and they didn’t accost him with blushing enthusiasm every time he came in for a coffee before work.

It was a quiet evening, a Friday, when most people were headed out to bars, not to coffee shops to do yet more work like they might on a weeknight. So Greg had plenty of time alone to brood, and to be annoyed at himself for brooding. He was wiping down tables to get ready for closing a little early when the bell above the door clanged.

He was about to call out that he was getting ready to close when he saw it was Tom who’d come in. He was bundled up in a broad-shouldered coat and a plaid scarf, his cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Hey, man,” Greg said, heart pounding. “I was just about to close, but I still have the machine up. Can I make you something?” Greg walked up to the door and flipped the Open sign off, locked the door so no other customers would come in before he could close.

“Little creepy, no? The lock?” Tom said, laughing nervously.

“Oh, sorry—that’s just, like, closing praxis,” Greg said. “Just me here tonight, so, like, I’ll be here all night if I let people trickle in while I’m trying to close.”

Tom leaned a hip on the counter in front of the cash register, looked a little abashed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to come in so late—”

“No, you’re good, dude. I was going to make myself something before I left anyway. One more won’t slow me down too much.”

“Alright, well, I guess just make me whatever you’re having.”

“Did you want caffeine? Espresso? Or no?” Greg asked.

“Ah, no, I think.”

Tom was quiet while Greg worked, took off his coat and scarf and sat down at a table. Greg steamed milk with hazelnut syrup, poured it into two of the staff mugs from the back, and topped them with whipped cream and the secret sprinkle stash they kept for special customers’ birthdays.

Tom snorted when Greg set the mug on the table in front of him. “Jesus,” he said. “What is this, my fifth fucking unicorn birthday party? I can just take this to go, if you give me a cup.”

Greg looked at the coat and scarf Tom had taken off and sat down across from him. “I can get you a different cup if you want. But like—I don’t know, it just seemed like something was up? I’m not usually here this late but I didn’t take you for a late coffee kind of guy?”

“Yeah, I was, ah, surprised to see you through the window, actually. I was coming in before I realized what I was doing. Ha.”

“Is, uh—are you doing alright?”

“Fine, yeah. I mean.” Tom gestured vaguely and took a sip of his drink, probably mostly just the whipped cream piled on top. “Jesus, how much sugar is in this?”

“Do you actually want an answer to that?”

“No, don’t tell me. I want to enjoy it. I like it, shockingly. You’re good, you know? At your job.”

Greg tucked his hair behind his ear, not sure how to respond. Tom had said that before, but now that they were sitting together alone, with just the table between them instead of the counter and cash register and espresso machine and all that—it felt different now. Greg mumbled a _thanks_ and sipped his own drink. He had made it really sweet, but something warm and rich and sweet was what you wanted when you were upset, wasn’t it? And Tom seemed . . . if not upset, at least not quite right.

Greg tried and tried to think of something to say, looking around the room and sneaking glances back at Tom, but nothing came to mind that didn’t sound ridiculous. He could’ve asked about Shiv, but he didn’t really want to hear about her, not from Tom. He could’ve asked how work was going, but he figured Tom probably wouldn’t want to talk about that. He could’ve asked where Tom had been the past few weeks, why he hadn’t come in, but—well.

Tom spoke and saved him from his spiral. “So, ah, did your shift schedule change then?” he asked.

“Um, no? I’m just covering somebody else’s tonight. Still the same early mornings on the weekdays. Except Mondays. So I get to sleep in on Saturday and Sunday and Monday.”

“Yeah, you don’t strike me as an early riser,” Tom said. He was twisting his mug around on the table, passing the handle from hand to hand.

“It was kind of an adjustment, when I started. The morning crowd is mostly nice, though. Like your assistant? She seems nice.”

“She keeps up,” Tom said. “Don’t think she’s too keen on me, though.”

Greg smirked, thinking of Comfry’s daily complaints about Tom. “No, like—yeah, I don’t think so. She _is_ pretty keen on my shift buddy, though.”

Tom raised an eyebrow and hummed a sort of non-response and drained the rest of his mug.

“Well, I, ah, should probably skedaddle here. Thanks again for this,” he said, holding up the empty mug. “How much do I owe you?”

“No worries, dude. Just, like, leave me an extra nice tip next time,” Greg said, and Tom shrugged.

Greg stood and picked up both their mugs and took them to the back to wash, feeling awkward—had it been presumptuous to assume Tom would come back in? To bring up tipping amounts? Would Tom think Greg was implying he hadn’t been tipping enough?

In his absentmindedness he knocked one of the mugs on the edge of the big industrial sink when he went to set it inside. The mug fell to the tile floor and broke, painfully loud, and Greg cursed under his breath. He set the other one down in the sink and crouched to pick up the big shards of ceramic, glad there hadn’t been more than dregs left.

Greg startled when Tom appeared at the door of the back room, pulling the classic customer concern at broken dishes act, and Greg nearly lost his balance. He caught himself before he fell on his ass, but he had to put a hand down to do it, right onto a bit of ceramic. He gasped at the small sharp cut.

“All good back here?” Tom said.

“Fuck,” Greg said, staring at the blood oozing into his palm around the shard. Tom noticed his hand and stepped through the door, concerned.

“Broom?” Tom asked, and Greg waved toward the corner behind the door. Tom swept up the broken pieces, and Greg leaned against the sink, eased the largest bit out of his hand—thankfully it wasn’t stuck too far in, but there were a few smaller pieces he might need tweezers to get out. He stanched the blood with paper towels, trying not to press the smaller bits in any deeper.

When Tom finished sweeping he stepped up to Greg and took his hand and lifted up the paper towels to assess. He had wide, strong hands— _dad hands_ , Greg thought, and then, _Shut up, Greg_ —but they were soft and uncalloused and warm. _Silver spoon hands. Better._

“There’s a couple little pieces left. Want me to try for them?” Tom asked, looking up at him. He was standing so close, and Greg could make out the five o’clock shadow on his jaw, the dark circles under his eyes, things always hidden when he was there early in the morning before work.

Greg nodded, meeting his eye and looking away quickly. “Sure, like, if you don’t mind.”

Tom stretched Greg’s palm farther open in one hand and pried the last few shards out easily with his perfectly filed fingernails. Greg’s nails were bitten and ragged; he wasn’t sure he could’ve gotten the pieces out himself. Tom kept hold of his hand when he was done and smiled up at Greg.

“All better,” Tom said. “You got bandages back here?”

Greg turned and pulled a box off a high shelf, and Tom took it from him, which Greg laughed at because he’d just gotten the box down on his own—he could definitely put a band-aid on himself.

“I can do it,” Greg said. “It’s not even bleeding anymore.”

Tom just shook his head and did it for him, fingers smoothing the edges of the bandage down over his palm. Then he looked up at Greg with a grin. “Need me to kiss it for you? Make it all better?” he asked in a teasing voice.

“Um . . . I mean, like—”

“I’m joking! Don’t freak out, man. I’m just razzing you.” Tom dropped his hand and patted him roughly on the shoulder, pulling a jokey uncle act at odds with how earnestly he’d been looking up into Greg’s face moments before.

“Hey, man,” Greg said, before he could stop himself. “I’m closing again tomorrow, if you want to hang out, or something, after.”

Tom smiled. “Really? I mean, I can’t really go out right now, with all eyes on the company. Might be paps out looking for me to make a fool of myself, you know?”

Greg hadn’t seen much mention of Tom personally since he’d seen the press conference air, but he nodded.

“So thanks for the invite, buddy, but I have to decline,” Tom said. Greg followed him out to the table they’d sat at, floundering for a way to salvage his hang-out idea, which was definitely not an attempt to ask out his cousin’s fiancé. It’d just be bros chillin’.

“Well, what if, like, there were a place you could be not in public?” Greg asked. “We could chill here, after closing. We’re not really supposed to have alcohol or whatever, but sometimes the other baristas hang out back here after hours. Nobody really cares, you know, if nothing gets too rowdy.”

“You mean if nobody breaks anything?” Tom smirked as he pulled on his coat, looking up at Greg.

Greg blushed. “Well, like, it happens, but you know what I mean. So anyway, it’s just an option, or whatever. If you actually wanted—”

“Hey, chill,” Tom said. “That sounds nice. Shall I bring us something to schnocker?”

“Cool. Cool, dude,” Greg said. “But no, I’ll take care of it. Treat you to the traditional after-hours libation.”

“Well, that sounds _special_. But know that I’m trusting you, Greg, not to kill me with it, whatever it is. See you tomorrow, man,” Tom said. He yanked on the door before realizing it was locked, and Greg brushed by him to unlock it.

“See you, like—see you tomorrow evening, in that case,” Greg said. Tom waved without looking back, so he didn’t see Greg’s grin.


	5. still a fox

Of course Greg’s Saturday shift was slow. Jack was working too, so at least Greg wasn’t stuck there by himself to brood and fret about his scheduled hang-out with Tom. But at the same time Jack’s crush was there studying, so he was too distracted to be much entertainment.

Greg had worn his favorite green sweater—he’d bought it at a thrift store, but it had only a little pilling under the arms. It was soft, though, and one of his only shirts that actually had long enough sleeves.

He’d packed his backpack with a bottle of off-brand coffee liqueur and cheapish vodka. It was all he had, and he hoped Tom wouldn’t mind the low quality—you couldn’t much taste the alcohol in a white Russian anyway, over the sugar and the cream. He looked up the recipe nearly once every hour during his shift, worried he’d forget it even though he’d made it a thousand times before.

Jack’s girl got up to leave about an hour before their shift was supposed to end. She and Jack had pretty much been eye-fucking each other the entire time she’d been there, so when she started gathering up her stuff to go, Greg pulled him to the side and told him to go ask her out or he’d steal all of Jack’s tips. Then he disappeared into the back under the pretense of washing dishes while Jack went to talk to her.

Jack busted into the backroom a few minutes later beaming and started to talk in a rush, but Greg just smiled and waved him off.

“Dude, just go,” Greg said. “I’ll close up. I did it yesterday by myself so, like, no worries.”

Jack thanked him effusively and was gone by the time Greg finished the dishes and went back out to the seating area. It was already dark out, and there were no other customers, so Greg started sweeping and wiping down the tables, hoping to get some of the closing tasks done before Tom got there.

He jumped every time someone walked close to the big windows at the front of the shop, but it was never Tom—it didn’t seem like he was going to show up early. Greg tried to sit on a barstool behind the counter to wait but got too antsy and just kept cleaning up instead. He set two barstools in the backroom for him and Tom to sit on later, so they could drink without being seen from the sidewalk.

When it came closing time, Tom still hadn’t shown up. Greg turned off the Open sign and most of the seating area lights. He felt awkward about the sort of moody lighting, but he was hoping it would deter anyone else from coming in because he didn’t want to lock the door.

He was just second-guessing himself about the lights and the stools in the back, which all felt very intimate for a Dudes Bein’ Bros kind of hang sesh with a cousin-in-almost-law, when Tom finally arrived. Too late to change anything, then—hopefully Tom wouldn’t be put off.

Greg took a breath and waved at Tom from behind the counter. He went to tug at the hem of his sweater and found he was still wearing his apron, so he hurried to pull it off and hang it up before striding over to the door to lock it behind Tom.

“Still a little creepy, the lock thing,” Tom said. “Especially with the lights so dim. It’s like a sex dungeon in here, Greg.”

“Uh, sorry about that. I was just trying to, like, keep people from wandering in late, you know, so—”

“Whatever, Greg. It’s fine.” Tom hung his coat and scarf on the back of the chair he’d used the day before. “So what are we drinking, buddy? Something stiff, I hope. I need it.”

“Well, I’m not exactly at liberty to express the specifics of the traditional after-hours libation,” Greg said. “Wait here and I’ll mix ’em up, uh, promptly.”

In the back he eyeballed the pours of vodka and liqueur over ice, giving Tom an extra little bit of each since he’d specified _something stiff_ and had liked the sweetness of the steamed milk Greg had made him the night before, if a little reluctantly. He floated cream on top of each glass and pushed the door open to call Tom in, feeling a bit like a blushing bride inviting her new husband into the bedroom to see her wedding night lingerie.

“It’s less dungeon-y back here,” Greg said.

“Mmhmm. I’m sure the fluorescents are doing wonders for my skin tone too,” Tom said, sitting down on the other barstool and accepting his glass from Greg.

Tom took a sip and coughed a little. “ _Christ_.”

“Well, like, you did specifically request stiff? Sorry?”

“What is this, a white Russian? If you’re trying to roofie me, this isn’t a very subtle way to do it, Greg.”

“Oh my god, dude, no, like—”

Tom bent over laughing. “Jesus, Greg, chill. I’m joking—I’m fucking joking.”

Greg chuckled nervously. “So, um. I gotta say, it’s pretty rad chilling with a guy who’s been on television.”

“Jesus. I’d rather not talk about that, Greg. Yeah? Flashbacks. Not the most honorable way to be on television.”

“No, sure, sorry. Um.” Greg cleared his throat, feeling off-kilter. “Like, how are things, then? Since we last spoke?”

Tom smirked. “Since we last spoke _yesterday_ , Greg?”

Greg shrugged.

“Great. Just fantastic. Delightful.”

“Really?” Greg said, doubtful, and Tom rolled his eyes.

“No. Not at all, actually.” Tom said, then shook his head and took a long sip of his drink. “So me and Shiv, we—we broke off the engagement.”

Greg’s heart leapt at that and he tried to look appropriately sad for a friend (acquaintance? ex-almost-in-law?). “Sorry to hear that, man. My condolences.”

“Yeah, well. I never quite fit in with the Roys. I mean, more than you do, ha. But I’ll be alright.”

“So do you have to, like, find a new place to live now?”

“Yeah, I stayed at the office a couple nights at first. I thought a hotel would look bad, so. Shiv was furious with me. I’d tried to talk to her about it, but you know how the family is. . . . But, yeah, I’ve got a place. It’s quiet, though, with just me and Mondale.”

“Oh, did you have to get a roommate and everything? I didn’t think, like, working for Waystar—”

“Oh, no, no. No, Greg,” Tom laughed. “Mondale’s my dog, ol’ buddy ol’ pal. No, thank god, no roommates for now. Although we’ll see how long I’m at Waystar after all this.”

“Well, I'd be delighted to meet him,” Greg said, and Tom raised his eyebrows. Greg went on: “I mean . . . I love dogs. Not enough room for me to get one, with my little shoebox place? So I just don’t get to see them very often.”

“Maybe I’ll bring him by on a walk sometime,” Tom said. “None of your cousins like dogs, you know? Cousin Greg the dog guy. Who’d’ve thought. Must be your non-Roy side.”

“Hirsch,” Greg said, watching as Tom drained the rest of his glass. Tom looked up, confused, so Greg explained: “The non-Roy side? It’s Hirsch.”

“Hirsch. Greg Hirsch. Flows a little better than Cousin Greg Roy. But I guess it doesn’t make sense to call you ‘cousin’ anymore, huh? Just Greg. Greg, Greg, Greg. Gregory. Gregory Hirsch,” Tom said, drawing out the syllables.

Greg took Tom's glass to mix them both another drink and asked Tom about his job. Tom prattled on about what it was like being an operator in the tourism industry, but Greg missed most of the specifics, thinking about the shapes Tom’s mouth made when he said the word _Greg_.

After two more white Russians—which Greg had to admit he was mixing pretty strong, and the fuckers hit harder than you realized with all the sugar in them—Tom started to get a little morose. One minute he was making an obscene joke about working up to be Logan’s left-hand man at Waystar, and the next he was tearing up. Greg shifted awkwardly on his barstool, not sure what to do.

Tom slouched a little while he talked, his eyebrows slanted up in worry. “I just—I think I’m going to lose my job, you know? I’m kinda shit at it, to be honest, just not really cut out for the whole cutthroat aspect—doesn’t suit my temperament, you know? And Logan has always hated me, and now I’m sure he _really_ hates me, now that the breakup is public, at least among the family, and I just—I’m going to be back to basically square one, post–forty years old. How pathetic, right? Fucking pathetic. It’s unbelievable, Greg— _you’ll_ be in better shape than I will.”

“Okay, well, like, I have—I did actually work for this job? Like—”

“Whatever, Greg. You’re so young still; it hardly matters. And you seem happy. And here I am, freshly cuckolded, basically, by a political analyst of all people, my fiancée’s ex-boyfriend of all people.” Greg wasn’t really sure what he was talking about anymore, but he knew the Roys in general didn’t tend to be cut out for monogamy, per se.

Tom sighed. “And I’m probably going to be unemployed within the week. And I’m just fucking miserable. And I was miserable before, and was it going to get better, if I got married to Shiv and worked my way up the studded fucking ladder? Who fucking knows, Greg?”

“Yeah, like—I don’t know, man. I think that kind of has to be your determination, you know?”

“And how do _you_ get to be so happy? What, you move out here away from half your family, closer to the other half, and you don’t even talk to those? I moved away from my family too, you know—I haven’t seen my parents in a year, because Shiv wanted to do all the holidays here.”

“Yeah, you’re right, and I—I can see that. But I’m sorry to hear it, that you haven’t gotten to see them in so long.”

“We’re kind of the same, you and me, aren’t we?” Tom said, leaning toward Greg so that their knees touched, and with the pressure Tom was putting on his knees, Greg worried that if he moved Tom would topple over. “The Roy family outcasts, huh?” Tom went on. “Except I’m not even really part of the family anymore, am I? At least you’ll always have the blood claim.”

“We are kind of similar in that way, I suppose,” Greg said. He took hold of Tom’s empty glass and stood to set both of them in the sink, avoiding Tom’s earnest eyes, still so close to tears. “I thought that, like, at Thanksgiving? It felt that way then, to me at least, like, that we had a certain camaraderie among the others, just sort of naturally?”

“Really? All the way back then?” Tom said, tilting his head. Greg swallowed, turned back to the sink to wash out their glasses, figuring they should probably call it quits on the liquor for the night.

“Yeah, like—yeah. I did, I guess.” He fumbled for something to say, hoping the noise of the faucet was enough justification for his silence. He didn’t want to give too much away, if Tom didn’t already suspect his crush—didn’t want to scare him off. But the little room felt so charged, with how emotional Tom was, and how close they had to be in the narrow space, and how loosely their words had been coming after all they’d drank.

He was leaning over to set their glasses in the drying rack when he felt warmth at his back—Tom, leaning up against him. Greg froze, and Tom just stood there, rested his head on Greg’s shoulder, his body pressed up against Greg’s all the way from his chest to his knees. Greg gripped the edge of the sink.

“Um,” he said, and felt stupid when he couldn’t think of anything else. Was this a hug? A weird embrace? Tom hadn’t even put his arms around him—it was like he was laying down to sleep, but standing up somehow.

“Would you kiss me?” Tom said.

“Um . . . uh?” Greg said, heart racing.

“If I asked you to?” Tom said.

“Um. I mean, like . . . yeah, like, if you asked me to. I would.” Greg slowly turned around, wondering if Tom was, in fact, asking him to, or if this really was a hypothetical.

Tom stepped back just enough that Greg could move but wouldn’t look at his face. Greg set his hands on Tom’s shoulders, looking down at him, trying to get a read on his facial expression, and Tom finally met his eye, his face open and vulnerable, and then his mouth turned down and his eyes squeezed shut and he was crying. Greg gently pulled him forward into a hug, and Tom wrapped his arms around his waist then, rested his forehead against Greg’s shoulder.

Tom sobbed once, loud in the small quiet space, and gasped for breath. Greg rubbed his shoulder blades slowly, not sure what to say. Tom gripped his sweater and turned his face to set his cheek against Greg’s collarbone as he caught his breath.

“Fuck. Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Tom said, sniffling. He stepped back, and Greg briefly wondered if he’d have a chance to kiss him then, telling himself even as he thought it that it would be a terrible time, when the man was clearly upset. But Tom turned away quickly, didn’t even meet his eye.

“I should, ah, probably get going. Let you finish up here. Sorry for keeping you,” Tom said.

“No worries, man. Really, uh—I had fun. A pleasant evening. I hope, like, it’s not ending on too sour a note, for you.”

“No more sour a note than I brought with me,” Tom said, stumbling a little over the door frame as he went back out to the seating area, where he’d left his coat. Greg followed a few steps behind, hands in his pockets.

“Could I, um—I could walk you back to your place, if you like?” Greg said. Tom looked at him then, eyes still a little red and so blue, and he looked so sad and vulnerable Greg could have teared up too.

“Thanks, Greg. But it’s really not too far. I’ll make it fine. I’m fine. Just . . . those Greg Specials were a little heavier than I realized, maybe.”

Greg smiled softly at that—at Tom’s giving his dumb cocktail a special nickname.

“Maybe you should rename it the Greg Stiffy Special,” Tom said and laughed halfheartedly even at his own joke. Greg blushed, and Tom looked away as he pulled on his coat.

“Right, well, I’ll, ah—I’ll see you next week then, Former Cousin Greg. Bright and early. But not on Monday, since that’s the Gregory Sleep-In day, yeah?”

“Yeah. Tuesday. See you then, man.” Greg unlocked the door for him, and Tom paused briefly in front of him. Greg wanted to hug him one last time, but he didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6N5dmvuSxNOCkcZ3wvGRY2), if you're into that (like this fic, it is rather non-canonically soft. what can u do ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ )


	6. starch

Over the weekend Greg stopped by a thrift store to buy a new mug for the shop. Fortunately he’d broken had belonged to some barista long gone, so he didn’t think anyone would particularly care or even notice it was missing. He wasn’t sure what kind of dog Tom had, but he found a kitschy ceramic mug with a dog tail for the handle, and it reminded him of Tom, so he bought it. (Actually there were two of them, and he bought both, but he was going to leave one of them at home anyway so nobody else needed to know that.)

After their awkward drunk interaction on Saturday night, Greg was honestly unsure if Tom would come back in. He felt a little silly buying a mug that reminded him of Tom when he wasn’t even sure if Tom would even come back or if he did, if he’d stay long enough to need a real mug instead of a paper cup. But a girl could dream, right? And Tom had asked Greg if he would kiss him—maybe someday he would ask again, for real.

Tom did come in, though, bright and early on Tuesday, just like he’d said. He was dressed in his usual suit, and Greg felt relieved both that he’d come in and that he still appeared to have a job.

They were both a little awkward, and quiet, and unlike usual Dani stayed out behind the counter working on another order while Tom was there. Greg wished Tom a happy morning and tried not to smile too much; Tom smiled back but didn’t say much at all, just kept looking over at Dani like he was nervous about being overheard.

“Thanks, buddy,” Tom said when Greg finally handed him his drink. Greg watched him leave, and the second he turned around to see if anyone else was waiting at the counter, Dani busted out laughing. Greg had no idea how long she’d been standing there.

“Dude,” she said, trying to pull herself together. “ _Buddy_? Are you fucking kidding me? What, did you blow him this weekend or what? That’s either some serious no-homo shit or he’s, like, trying to convince himself he’s not half in love with you already.”

“Shut up,” Greg said. “He calls everybody ‘buddy.’ He’s from, like, Minnesota or something. Apparently that’s just what they call people there.”

“Well, he doesn’t call _me_ ‘buddy.’”

“That’s because you’re always in the back shirking work when he comes in.”

“Not my fault he’s annoying.”

Greg rolled his eyes and went to take another order.

And that was pretty much how things went on for a few weeks: Tom came in on weekday mornings, as usual, and by all appearances was happy to see Greg. But he never said much, other than the obligatory _Morning_ and _Just the latte, please_ , and sometimes a ribald crack about current events. And Greg wasn’t sure how to bridge the gap, how to get back the rapport they’d had before. Maybe Tom felt he’d gone too far when they’d drank together, had been too open to feel comfortable going back to how things used to be.

He didn’t come in for Greg’s closing shifts either, as much as Greg was hoping he’d stop by. Greg would even let him pretend it was a coincidence. Like, _Oh, hi, Tom. F_ _ancy seeing you here._ Every time Tom came in on a Friday morning, Greg tried to work himself up to inviting Tom for another closing-shift hang-out. But Tom was so quiet that he just couldn’t get the words out. So Greg resigned himself to seeing Tom in the morning, Tuesday through Friday.

* * *

Greg held on to those weekdays, though, as stupid and juvenile as he felt for it. One Wednesday, he looked up every time the bell above the door jingled, but Tom never showed. Comfry did, though.

She peered around Greg and drummed her fingers on the counter, smiling awkwardly. “Can I get the Dani Special, please?” she asked.

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Uh . . . and what, per se, is the Dani Special, if I may ask?”

“I don’t know. She makes it for me every time.” The finger-drumming increased. She was using both hands now.

“That so?” Greg asked.

“She won’t tell me what’s in it.”

“Great. Well, I don’t know if I’d trust that, if I were you. Girl’s got a prank predilection, you might say. I’ll go ask her, though. She’s just in the back.”

He poked his head through the half-open storeroom door. “‘Dani Special,’ huh?” he said, smirking.

Dani stood up quickly and dropped the bag of chai mix she was stocking back in the box. “I better not hear a word about this,” she whispered furiously as she pushed past him. Greg followed her out, grinning because he had the upper hand for once.

“Or what?” he asked. “You’ll make fun of me? You do that already. I’ve got nothing to lose here, dude.”

Dani smiled at Comfry over the counter and then turned around and glared at him. “I can make your life _unbearable_ ,” she whispered.

“Again. You do that already,” Greg said quietly. “How much do you charge for the _Dani Special_? I can ring her up.”

“Three,” Dani said, glowering into the steaming pitcher.

“ _Dollars_? Three _dollars_?” Greg asked. “That’s it? What all is in that thing?”

“Yes. Three dollars,” she said, and looked up at him pointedly. “Chill. Or let’s talk about your end-of-night steamed milk habit, shall we?”

Greg ignored her and went to ring up Comfry.

“Did you need anything else, or?” he asked, wondering about Tom.

“No, just this today, thanks.”

“No, uh—nothing for the old boss man?”

“Nope. Boss man’s out. He didn’t tell you?” Comfry said, smirking.

“He hasn’t been in today,” Greg said.

“Well, he got the boot at COB yesterday. He’s probably at home crying into his Nespresso right now.”

“Shit. Is he, I mean—do you have a new boss yet?”

“Not yet. I heard it might be his ex, though—Shiv? I guess they’re bringing her in to take over all the international operations, so Parks and Cruises and all that shit. I might get shuffled up to be her assistant. We’ll see.”

“Oh, fuck—no shit? Well, good luck with that. Shiv’s a tough—she’s a tough cookie, I hear.”

“Yeah, but think of the raise, man,” Comfry said. Dani called her name at the other end of the counter and Comfry raised her chin in a little goodbye nod at Greg.

* * *

On Friday Tom came in mid-morning in a chunky sweater and pressed jeans. After he ordered, maintaining the respectful not-too-talkative working relationship he’d set up with Greg, he set himself up at a two-person table with a tablet and a little keyboard stand and a pair of reading glasses.

Greg snuck glances at Tom over the espresso machine as he made his latte until Dani appeared next to him, after which Greg pretended to be extremely focused on the milk he was steaming.

“Dude,” she murmured, staring at Tom across the room. “The DILF energy is strong today. Like, I think I can smell the Old Spice from here. Is your brain just melting right now? Are you turning into, like, DILF pudding?”

Greg blushed and elbowed her out of his space to turn off the steam wand.

“I am begging you to shut the fuck up,” he said.

“You gotta hit that, man, or I’m going to,” she said.

Greg rolled his eyes. “No, you’re not. I don’t see you making _him_ any three-dollar Dani Specials.”

She made a face at him. “Whatever. I’m just saying. Get in there, man. The suspense is driving me nuts.”

“Well, fuck off about it. There’s a line forming.” He poured Tom’s latte into the dog mug he’d bought weeks ago, glad somebody other than him would finally get some use out of it and hoping both that Tom would and would not comment about Greg’s giving him a for-here cup when he hadn’t specifically asked for one. Tom had gotten himself all set up, though, so it felt reasonable to assume.

He walked Tom’s drink out to him at his table instead of calling him up to the counter. He was already so settled, with his little reading glasses on.

“Good to see you, like, during the day?” Greg said.

“Yeah, ha, so—funny thing, I got let go,” Tom said, setting his glasses down on the table.

“Oh, for real?” Greg said, hoping he actually seemed surprised by the news. “Did they give you a reason?”

Tom scoffed and waved his hand. “Some bullshit bloviation about restructuring of middle management. But we all know the real reason, yeah?”

“You mean, like—” Greg leaned in to whisper the rest: “the Cruises stuff?”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Yes, Gregory. Conveniently enough, the internal investigation finished up last Friday. So.” He pulled an overly sweet fake smile at Greg.

“But doesn’t that violate, like, whistleblower laws?”

“Not if you’re having relationship issues with the CEO’s daughter.”

“Ah. Well,” Greg stalled, looking around. “Good riddance, right?”

“Sure. To be frank, Greg, it was getting pretty shitty for me around there anyway. Imagine someone breaking up with you and then having to go to work every day with their verbally abusive family members. I feel like, I don’t know—like I’m no longer being gangbanged by a family of opossums, you know?” Tom laughed. “It’s a real relief, I gotta tell you.”

“Well, uh, cool, man. I should probably get back to work, but, like, just let us know, you know, if you need anything else, or whatever.”

When Greg came back around the counter Dani was turned around facing the wall, hand over her mouth to hold in a laugh. She looked at Greg and lost it, and crouched down behind the counter so Tom wouldn’t see her.

“Shut up,” Greg said, nudging her with his foot. She lost her balance and fell on the floor, still laughing, and Greg pulled her up by the elbow.

“Go wash your damn hands,” he told her.

Tom stayed a few hours, pecking away on his tablet, and Greg swooped by once, in a quiet hour, to pick up his mug and wash it and return it with a refill, ignoring Dani's giggles as he did it.

"Thanks, buddy," Tom said. "You know, this kind of looks like Mondale. Ha! What a coincidence, right?"

"Really? What kind of, like, breed of dog is he?"

"He's just a fuckin' mutt, Mondale. So really he looks like every other brown mutt. Just another cute fuck-up from the canine slush pile."

Tom brought his empty mug back up to the counter before he left. He picked up a few packages of biscotti, read the labels with awkward mumbles, and set them back. Greg stood close by, not sure exactly what Tom was after.

"Um. Did you—can I get you anything else?" Greg asked.

Tom looked up at him. "My, aren't we attentive?" He bellowed out a laugh. "Um. But, no. I just wanted to ask if you have any, ah, allergies?"

"Well, um, I think one of my cousins on the Hirsch side was allergic to bees, so there's always the possibility that will spring up, but . . ."

"Yeah, I meant food allergies, Greg. I don't need your family medical history."

"Oh. No, none of those, that I can recall at the moment? Why?"

"And you'll be here tomorrow," Tom said. "Right?"

"Yep. That's, uh, that's the schedule."

"Okay, buddy, well, don't eat before your shift. Got it?" Tom backed toward the door, bumping into a chair on the way. "See you tomorrow."

"Don't eat? But why? Dude, what? Tom?"

Tom turned away to pull at the door, waving behind him, and then realized he had to push to get it open. He turned halfway to the side and laughed awkwardly and then he was off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost done! I'm actually for once almost done with the last chapter before I post the penultimate one, so should finish up tomorrow or the day after I hope :) hope you've enjoyed this!


	7. holiday

Greg wore his best green sweater on Saturday and showed up at the shop half an hour early, because his shift didn’t start until one, and did Tom really expect him to wait until one to eat? He’d had, like, some toast at home, but he wasn’t really the type for a heavy breakfast.

But Tom showed up right on time, as usual. He couldn’t give Greg’s stomach the mercy of being early. Greg was behind the counter with Jack, and Tom waved at him through the window, a big paper bag in one hand and a leash in the other, with Mondale (or _a_ dog, presumably Mondale) attached to the other end.

Jack grinned at him when Greg turned to beg an early break. The shop was always quiet on Saturday afternoons anyway. But Jack caught his elbow after he got his apron off.

“Hey,” Jack said. “Get a smooch in on your DILF and I’ll let you have the tips today.”

“Dude. All of them?”

Jack nodded somberly and gave him a shove. “Get after it, man.”

Greg gave himself a little pep talk on the brief walk through the shop, and he was still blushing when he got outside to greet Tom and introduce himself to Mondale. Tom let him take the leash while they walked a few hundred yards down to a bench to eat the fancy sandwiches Tom had brought. It was hard to hold onto Mondale’s leash and eat a sandwich at the same time, but Greg was so excited about getting to chill with a dog that he insisted, even though Tom offered to take it back multiple times so Mondale would stop begging Greg for bits of turkey from his sandwich.

“Dude, this is so good? I’m, like, effusive right now.”

“Well, you’re welcome. It’s really nothing.” Tom touched his arm briefly and then fidgeted with his hands in his lap. “Just, ah, you feed me all the time, effectively, and so I thought it’d be nice to return the favor. Especially after you babysat my drunken sad-sack crying jag a while back.”

“No worries, man. You’ve been really, uh, going through it lately.” Greg caught Tom’s eye and smiled encouragingly, he hoped.

“Anyway, we should probably get you back to work, yeah?” Tom said, standing up. Greg stayed close on the short walk back to the shop, keeping Mondale in his hand farther from Tom. Their hands bumped a few times, but neither of them acknowledged it.

In front of the shop, Tom turned to Greg and held out his hand for Mondale’s leash, but when Greg handed it over he didn’t let go right away, catching Tom’s fingers. Greg bent to kiss him but couldn’t decide whether to go for his cheek or for his mouth, and Tom froze, surprised, and turned his face toward Greg’s at the last second so that Greg’s kiss caught just the corner of his mouth.

Greg let go of Mondale’s leash and stepped back, heart racing. “Um. Thank you. Again? For, uh, lunch, and stuff. Maybe—I mean, I’m closing? Today? Tonight, that is. Like, if you happened to be in the neighborhood and had, like, a hankering, or whatever. Like, for coffee, I mean?”

Tom smirked, and Greg cursed his nervous babbling. “Alright, buddy. I’ll, ah, see you later, maybe.”

Jack clapped him on the back as soon as he got his apron back on. Jack had a date with study girl and left early, but Greg insisted he take his fair share of the tips.

“You’re good, dude,” Greg said. “I got a smooch out of the deal and I didn’t get punched in the face, so, that’s, like, satisfactory on my end. Thanks for the, uh, encouragement, anyway.”

And then he was waiting, for Tom, again, and anxious cleaning the shop as usual. But for once Tom showed up early, an hour before he was supposed to close, striding into the shop with a grin and a paper bag from a wine shop.

Tom got up to the counter and then he frowned. “Fuck. You wouldn’t have a corkscrew back there, would you?”

“Like, the wine kind of corkscrew?”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Yes, Gregory, the wine kind.”

“I mean, we have, like, milk thermometers? That have a pointy end? I could probably dig a cork out with one of those.”

Tom didn’t even honor that with a response—he just scoffed and set the bag on the counter with a little clink and hurried out. By the time he got back, Greg had finished his closing tasks and turned the Open sign off, deciding it wouldn’t hurt to close up a little early today, officially speaking. Nobody had been in for hours anyway. Tom came in brandishing a corkscrew and tossed the balled-up receipt at Greg as Greg locked the door behind him.

Greg sat on his stool in the backroom while Tom opened the wine and poured it, reluctantly, into mugs.

“Good sir,” Tom said, handing Greg his mug, “your libation for the evening. Albeit unfortunately housed in an inferior vessel.”

“Like, it tastes the same either way, man. So whatever, you know?” Greg said.

Tom rolled his eyes and held his mug out as if for a toast, but then he just looked at Greg, mouth open but silent.

Greg cleared his throat, trying to think of a toast. “Um. To exposing corporate malfeasance?” Greg said. “And to . . . Mondale?” And they drank.

“So, Greg,” Tom said, back set somewhat alarmingly straight on his barstool. “Tell me something.”

“Uh huh. Okay? Did you, um, have something particular in mind?”

“Ah, do you often kiss older men on sidewalks?”

Greg had his mug at his mouth already and decided to go ahead and take a longer draught. “I wouldn’t say ‘often,’ perchance.”

“Only when they bring you lunch first? Or only when they’re former cousins-in-law?”

“Um. I guess—I mean, if the combination of those things were to present itself, as it, like, as it lately has? Then I might, under those circumstances.”

“I’d venture to say you _have_ , under those circumstances.”

Greg shrank down a little, feeling accused. “Well, yes, yeah. I guess so?”

Tom stared at him, and his mouth twitched, and then he laughed hard, holding his mug out steady in front of him. Greg half-smiled along, not quite getting the joke.

“God, Greg. You’re so easy. The most gullible gal in the family. I wouldn’t want to work at the family company either, if I were you. You’d get fucking roasted, buddy.”

“Ha, yeah, maybe.” Greg took a sip of his wine, peering around the little room, anywhere but at Tom.

“Good thing I got fucking canned, or I might have tried to hire you,” Tom said.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I got Comfry after a while, and she got the job done, sure. But it was touch-and-go there for a time, you know? And I feel like you’d have the head for it, being an assistant. Seems transferable enough from this kind of gig.”

“Yeah, I mean, like—I’ve thought that, actually? Would’ve been pretty cool, working up in the big building with all the cousins. And you.”

“Total pipe dream, though, Greg. Sounds nice, all puppies and fucking extended family birthday parties with confetti balloons, but like I said, any of them would fucking guillotine you at the first chance if it meant they had a better chance at the throne.”

“Yeah. Sounds about right. Might’ve been better than you being unemployed and me serving a life sentence as a wage slave, though.”

“Oh, Greg. Don’t worry about all that, buddy. We’ll find something else.”

“We will?”

Tom flustered a little at that _we._ “I mean, yeah. You know? I can, ah—I’ll help you. I’ve got plenty of connections still, and I’ll—we’ll find you something, if you want that. Get you out of the coffee-slinging world. We’ll find both of us something. Yeah?”

“Like . . . for real, though?”

Tom laughed and leaned forward to pat Greg’s knee. “Yes, Greg, for real.” His smile fell a little, and he said, “You like that?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I like that,” Greg said, and held out his mug for another toast. This time neither of them said anything; they just looked at each other and drank when the other did. Greg finished his glass and stood up to refill it. He picked up the bottle from the shelf where Tom had set it and turned to offer some to Tom—and found him standing too, close enough that Greg nearly bumped him and dropped the bottle.

“Do you—um,” Greg said, a little unnerved by Tom staring straight up into his face.

“I was just joshing you, about the kissing older men thing,” Tom said quietly.

Greg nodded. “Um. Mmhmm.”

Tom took the bottle from him, took a long drink straight from it, and held it out to Greg, raising his eyebrows to offer him some. Greg shook his head, and Tom set the bottle back on the shelf, then took Greg’s mug and set it down too.

“Sit. Please,” Tom said, gesturing toward Greg’s barstool, and Greg sat. He had a long torso, and Tom was just enough shorter than him that their faces were nearly level this way.

“I just wanted you to know, you know, that I was joking,” Tom said, and he took a deep breath and set a hand on Greg’s shoulder and leaned in and kissed him.

Tom leaned back after, and Greg said, “Mmhmm. I can—I can tell. Just a joke. A good old—good old ribbin’.” Tom smiled and Greg pulled him back in for another kiss.

There were definitely rules about using the backroom for extracurricular activities. Drinking with one or two coworkers, maybe a friend? Not technically allowed, but generally ignored. Making out for extended periods? Probably also frowned upon. And progressing much farther past that: definitely disallowed. Still, Greg figured nobody would know if he made out with a star patron for, like, a _little while_.

Then Tom slid his hands up under the hem of Greg’s sweater.

“Maybe, um—would you want to go back to, like, my place?” Greg asked.

Tom grinned. “I actually need to go check on Mondale pretty soon here,” he said.

“Oh.”

“By which I mean, what about my place? It’s closer anyway, I’m guessing. And probably rather more spacious, no offense to your proletarian sensibilities.”

“ _Oh._ I mean, yeah, dude, for sure. Let’s, um—let me just lock up and stuff.”

So they left for Tom’s place, which was, in fact, much closer than Greg’s—just around the corner.

“This place is—wow,” Greg said as Tom let them up. “And you weren’t kidding about, like, the proximity. You’ve been this close all the time?”

Tom stuttered a little and turned closer toward the door while he worked the lock. “Yeah, just—it was convenient, you know, after the breakup.”

“Mmhmm. No, sure. Makes sense.”

Tom told Greg he could sit for a minute while he took Mondale out, but Greg went with them, not wanting to be stuck waiting, awkward and alone, in Tom’s apartment. He could tell Tom was starting to feel antsy on the way back up, and when they got in Tom made a show of letting Mondale off his leash and cooing at him and telling Greg about his favorite toys.

When things fell quiet, Tom asked if Greg wanted a drink, and he didn’t really—he just wanted to be kissing Tom again, but it didn’t seem like Tom was ready for that. So he said yes, just for something to do, an excuse to stick around a little longer, an excuse to stand in Tom’s space when Tom asked him what kind of liquor he preferred.

They sat on the couch, side by side but not touching, with their drinks, and when Greg set his down on the coffee table, Tom picked it up straight away and set it back down on a coaster.

“Sorry,” Greg said. “We don’t have to—I mean, I can go, if you want?”

Tom set his own glass down quickly, forgoing the coaster, and grasped Greg’s forearm, his face earnest. “No, I don’t—that’s not what I want. I know I’m being—” Tom stopped and took a deep breath. “It’s been ages since I did all this, the whole courting thing. Bringing somebody back to my place. So I just feel . . . you know?” he said, his hand still tight on Greg’s arm.

Greg nodded, said, “Mmhmm. Um, so—we can just . . .” And he leaned in and kissed Tom, soft and slow, and it turned out that that was really all it took to cross the no-man’s-land of awkwardness and uncertainty—just to lean in and do it.

* * *

Tom’s bed was the nicest one Greg had ever woken up in, except for maybe in a hotel on the odd family vacation when he was a kid. It was also significantly bigger than Greg’s, although that didn’t matter so much when they were tangled up right in the middle of it anyway.

Tom woke him up with a cup of coffee.

“Wow, is this Nespresso?” Greg asked, smirking. “I gotta say, the depth of flavor—”

“Shut up, Greg.” Tom pretended to sulk, and so Greg leaned over and kissed him, pretending it was only to make him feel better, as if he hadn’t been looking for an excuse all morning anyway.

“What’s your favorite holiday?” Greg asked, thinking of the holidays Tom hadn’t gotten to spend with his own family.

“Fourth of July, probably.”

Greg snorted. “This isn’t an ATN interview, Tom. You don’t have to give, like, the most nationalist answer you can think of.”

“Oh, fuck off. It’s the best one. It’s in the summer, so you don’t have to get all bundled up, and you don’t have to sit around pretending to like things people spent exorbitant amounts of money on just so you’ll feel obligated to pretend to like them.”

“Wow. That is a very cynical view of Christmas, dude.”

“Also, in Saint Paul, my parents always had this great big neighborhood bash for the Fourth of July, and all the little kids would be running around through the sprinklers in their little stars-and-stripes outfits, and everybody would be eating the most god-awful food and drinking the most god-awful beer, and loving every minute of it. It’s a delightfully unpretentious holiday, Greg.”

“When was the last time you went?”

“Oh, Lord. Must’ve been half a decade now.”

“Half a decade’s only five years, Tom. Using the word ‘decade’ makes it sound like forever. We should, like—we should go, though.”

“What, to Saint Paul?”

“Yeah, for the Fourth of July? We should go.”

“Awfully bold of you to invite me to a party happening literal months from now, when we just had our first kiss less than twenty-four hours ago.”

Greg set down his coffee and pulled Tom to lie back down with him in bed. “Well, we can play it by ear. I don’t think I’ll get tired of you by then. But if you get tired of me, then, like, you can still go. You know? It’s your family, or whatever.”

“You don’t _think_ you’ll get tired of me?” Tom said, poking Greg’s chest. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Greg.”

Greg pulled Tom’s head to his chest. “I’m just saying. I don’t want to, like, get too far out. Scare you off.” Tom laughed softly and wrapped his arms around his waist, and it was so cozy that Greg thought maybe he could just fall back asleep like that. But then Tom brushed a hand up his chest, and kissed his neck, and—maybe there’d be time for a nap later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm scheduling us all a collective trip to the dentist to address our tooth rot from all this sweet lol. anyway hope you all enjoyed this! tysm for your kudos & comments <333

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr [@van1lla-v1lla1n](https://van1lla-v1lla1n.tumblr.com/) and Egg is [@feuillytheflorist](https://feuillytheflorist.tumblr.com/) :)


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